My New Kitten
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: She wants him, so she'll have him. No matter what. Written for the NFA Community Stalker Challenge


**Note:** This story is set in Season Two, when Tim was still a shy, stuttering Probie!

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I love watching him sleep. He's so peaceful in slumber, his face pressed down in his pillow as his arms clutch it tightly. Even in sleep, his brow is still tightly furrowed, as though he's deeply concerned. Beneath the cocoon of his sheets and comforter, though, I can see his body expand and collapse with each slow, relaxed breath he takes. I wonder, would he breathe so easily if he knew I was sitting right outside his window?

I still remember the day we met. His team investigated my ex-boyfriend, Troy—now also an ex-sailor—after he was caught embezzling funds. Troy had been your typical man. He had spent his free time hanging with his immature friends, watching whatever sport was in season. They would assemble on the couch of our shared apartment with an array of greasy, disgusting junk food cluttering up the tables. I couldn't escape the yelling and shouting they would make when their team made a goal; the yelling and shouting they made when the opposing team made a goal, though, was even worse. At the end of the game, they would go out to the bar to drink and celebrate (or drown their sorrows, depending on the outcome of the game), leaving me to clean up like a maid. Troy was loud, lazy, disgusting, sexist, and insulting to the point of verbal abuse. When we went out on dates—something which grew more and more rare as our relationship went on—he didn't even try to hide it when he eyed other girls. So when NCIS asked me about him, I was all too eager to tell them every detail I could.

The other agent, some guy by the name of DiNozzo, had immediately turned on the charm as he spoke to me. Luckily, my years spent with Troy had made me immune to such things. I deflected his cheesy, disingenuous compliments with a frigid cross of my arms and an exaggerated roll of my eyes. He got the message pretty quickly, so he must have had _some_ brains in his head. He then opted to leave the questioning to Timothy.

It was fate.

Timothy was the complete opposite of Troy in every respect. He was a complete gentlemen, opening doors and even pulling out my chair when we sat down to talk. He had boyish good looks, but he didn't seem to recognize it. I had a feeling that physical activities weren't his strengths, but he was incredibly intelligent, a trait which seems to be lacking in many people these days. Timothy wore his heart on sleeve, his large and beautiful eyes expressing every emotion which ran through his body. He had made no assumptions as to what kind of girl I was or whether or not I was attracted to him. His tone had been friendly, but professional. Most importantly, he had shown genuine concern when I had told him how verbally abusive Troy had been. When he had gently lain his hand over mine, I had felt a wonderful connection with him. I had hoped he felt it too.

Before his team left, Timothy handed me a card with the phone number of the agency, telling me to call if I could think of anything. In return, I stealthily slipped him my number as well, hoping he would call and ask me on a date.

He never did.

It wasn't hard for me to track him down. Soon, I had his address and I made watching him a nightly occurrence for me. During the day, I trail behind him on his way to NCIS headquarters. Then, I park myself on a bench, hoping he'll come out for one reason or another. Sometimes, I see him leave for lunch. His favorite spot is a small café around the corner and he usually orders the BLT and a Coke. I sit and watch him as I sip my iced tea. He doesn't notice. He's far too oblivious. One day, he bumped into my table, nearly knocking over my beverage. I freaked out, not because he almost spilled the drink, but because I feared he would recognize me, or, worse, realize I had been following him. All he did, though, was give me a heartfelt apology before leaving, all the while completely red-faced.

The fact that he didn't recognize me both relieved me and enraged me.

Through my secret observations of Tim, I came to know and memorize everything about the young man. I knew his likes and dislikes; I knew his quirks and his bad habits; I knew his daily routine perfectly, a routine which rarely changed, even on weekends. Within a number of weeks, I knew exactly what kind of a person Timothy was.

As I watched the shy, slightly skittish man, I was reminded of a young kitten I'd had as a girl. Dandelion had been an orange kitten with a white striped tail. She had been missing her right eye and had had a couple of permanent scratches on her underbelly. When I had adopted her from the animal shelter, the woman who ran the shelter told me the young cat had been rescued from the street after being attacked by a much larger cat. Chances are, Dandelion had been born on the streets and my home had been her first real home.

Dandelion had been very easily frightened. She had been antsy and skittish, and for the first few months, she would jump with a soft "mew" if anyone touched her. No matter how much affection I showed her, she would often hide in my closet, burying herself beneath stuffed animals and clean laundry that I had been too lazy to hang up.

At first, I had been patient with her avoidance. She had, after all, had a hard life up to that point and no doubt was still recovering from her vicious attack. As it continued, though, I had grown angrier and angrier with Dandelion. How dare she ignore me after all I had done for her? I had shown her love and caring, and she was treating me like dirt! Each time she would hop off my lap and scurry away, my face would grow red and I would stomp after her screeching for her to come back. I would grab at the items which laid across the closet floor and toss them behind me with no care until I had found her. Then, I would grab her by the scruff of her neck and carry her back to where we'd been sitting, holding her tightly in my lap as I pet her. She was going to sit there and like it!

One day Dandelion wriggled off my lap and ran to her makeshift sanctuary. The rage boiled within me as I followed behind. She was getting on my last nerve. As per usual, I began grabbing at things, tossing them away as I looked to see where she was hiding. After grabbing a coat and tossing it behind me, I heard a strangled cry from within it and it hit my wall with a thud. In my anger, I had unknowingly grabbed Dandelion and had thrown her. It had been an accident…but I can't deny I felt a sense of satisfaction in knowing I had hurt her, seeing as she had hurt me.

After that, I wasn't afraid to punish Dandelion as I saw fit. Slowly, she began to understand what I expected of her and didn't fight when I tried to cuddle her. I trained her to love me, even if said love came only out of fear.

Timothy was much like Dandelion. He was uncertain and easily frightened. He had avoided my attempts at affection, angering me, even if I did still love him. So, as I had with Dandelion, I have plans to train Timothy to properly show his love for me—because he _does_ love me, even if he is too scared to show it.

He will learn.

He will obey.

He's like a new kitten.


End file.
